


practice makes perfect

by bleep0bleep



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Baking, Christmas, Fluff, Getting Together, Hanukkah, Jewish Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Practice Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 12:57:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8980708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleep0bleep/pseuds/bleep0bleep
Summary: “So… you’re interested? Or you just said yeah because it’s what you say when you don’t know what to say.”“Interested. In kissing you.”Stiles makes a vague gesture with his hand. “I mean, yeah, if only to get you more comfortable with the whole dating thing in the future. I mean, we’re friends, and I want you to be happy.” He bites his lip, nervous. Derek doesn’t even need to think about it because he knows it’s a bad idea. He’ll kiss Stiles and get to know what it’s like, and his heart will break because he won’t ever get to have him, that this is out of friendship only. But this might be his only chance.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fauvistfly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fauvistfly/gifts).



> written for the lovely [fauvistfly](http://fauvistfly.tumblr.com) for the [Sterek Secret Santa](http://stereksecretsanta.tumblr.com)! I hope you enjoy!

The doorbell rings, and Derek is pulling a lasagna out of the oven. He opens his mouth to ask—

Oh.

Stiles is already walking to the front door, and Derek hears him open it with a sleepy, “Hello?” 

Derek sets down the steaming hot lasagna, admiring the melting cheese on top, and takes his hands out of the oven mitts. He’s a little surprised the doorbell woke Stiles from his nap, but then again Stiles always been a light sleeper. 

When Derek offered up his loft to the pack for anyone to visit, any time, he hadn’t really expected anyone to show up. Then again, moving back to Beacon Hills while most of the pack were settled— Scott and Stiles were off at Berkeley in their third year, Lydia’s off at MIT, speeding through her undergrad; even Liam and Mason have applied to colleges already and are big seniors on campus.

It’s an hour’s drive from Berkeley, and yet… more weekends than not, and a few Fridays and weekday afternoons here and there, Stiles has been… here.

Stiles complains about noisy roommates and terrible wifi at the university, and how he doesn’t want to intrude in his dad’s space ever since he married Melissa.

It’s been months of Stiles hanging out and doing homework on his sofa, shrieking and getting Derek to watch video after cat video, and falling asleep on said sofa and more than once Derek putting him to bed in the bedroom and Derek crashing on the couch.

“Oh, it’s so good to meet you at last, Stiles!” 

Oh, that’s Mirabelle’s chirpy voice. She’s the live-in manager Derek hired to take care of the apartment building while he was travelling South America with Cora. He didn’t really see a reason to fire her when he returned; after all, she  _ really  _ liked the community building aspect of it. Derek hadn’t really paid attention to that part of owning a building and managing the tenants— he’d answered calls about broken pipes and dealt with parking spot arguments, and was around if people needed him, but Mirabelle  _ loves  _ planning the community events and doing potlucks and Derek didn’t even know that community room on the third floor existed, okay?

“Uh, yeah, me too,” Stiles says, his heart rate picking up a bit. 

Derek steps out of the kitchen to see what’s going on. He waves at Mirabelle, who is holding a boxful of green plastic somethings, and raises his eyebrows at Stiles, who is slouching against the doorway, holding another one of the green somethings. 

“Derek talks about you all the time,” Mirabelle says, beaming. “That’s your blue Jeep in the parking lot, isn’t it? It’s so good to see that visitor spot being used, I mean, Derek never—”

“Thank you, Mirabelle,” Derek says, stepping forward before she reveals just how few visitors he gets nowadays. “What’s all this?”

“Oh! It’s mistletoe. Plastic, of course, I remember you said you were allergic, and I’m just handing them out to all the tenants, a bright cheerful holiday decoration, and maybe to encourage a little romance,” she says, winking. 

“Thanks,” Derek says, more gruff than he intends to. “You know I own the building, you don’t have to do this stuff for me.”

Mirabelle shrugs. “But it’s part of the fun! Okay, bye! Nice to meet you, Stiles!” 

And she’s off, down the hallway with her box full of fake mistletoe.

Stiles is still holding a piece on the end of a piece of glittery red ribbon. “I can throw this out, if you want.” He makes a face, shaking the thing, and suddenly Derek has a vision of it hanging in a doorway, he and Stiles under it, kissing passionately, Derek teasing his tongue between Stiles’ lips—

“You can hang it up. There’s a nail here already,” Derek says, pointing at the one Cora had stuck in above the front door. For good luck charms, she had said, before they both left.

Stiles nods and ties the thing above the door, his t-shirt riding up to reveal the pale expanse of his back. 

Derek quickly turns away, so he doesn’t count— recount, actually— the moles on Stiles’ lower back. (There are seven.) 

He wonders when it came to this; when he started thinking about his relationship with Stiles, how far it’d come, how much they’d been through, how much of his feelings were— 

It had been a long time since Derek had allowed himself to love someone. Like that.

Casual, yes. 

But this— this is pack. This is  _ Stiles,  _ who held him up in a pool for two hours even when he had no reason to trust Derek, to  _ like _ Derek, who gave up starting on the first line in a lacrosse game to help Derek, who had literally been to hell and back with all the supernatural shenanigans that had plagued Beacon Hills since. 

It had taken leaving, and returning, to realize what Stiles meant to him. To realize that Derek didn’t quite deserve him, and if friendship was all that he could have, that would be fine.

It’s fine.

It’s been six months of Stiles hanging out at his apartment so much his scent has soaked into the couch— the couch, the kitchen, even Derek’s sheets for a time, and there are times when Derek wants to tell him how he feels, but… Stiles is still young, in college. The last thing he needs right now is to be tied to a broken werewolf who lives in his hometown. He should be dating, doing exciting things, traveling…

The door shuts.

“Derek?”

Derek snaps back to attention. “Yes,” he says automatically.

“Yes?” Stiles raises his eyebrows. “I asked if you wanted to make out, dude.” 

Derek’s heart stops, then skips, then starts again, all as Stiles lets out a short laugh— because of course it was a joke.

“I mean, your super hot neighbor comes by and brings you mistletoe— and don’t give me that ‘she’s giving it to all the tenants’ thing because she made  _ eyes _ at you, Derek— it totally means she wants to mack on you.”

“Uh.” Derek has no idea how this went through Stiles’ thought process and ended up with the two of them kissing. 

“I said you should practice, because obviously you haven’t dated in for _ ever _ , and yeah it was a joke, I was just checking because you do that spacing-out-thing when you have something on your mind…”

_ Stiles _ was on Derek’s mind, and Derek takes a deep breath now to process what Stiles is saying. Sometimes he just goes so mile-a-minute with his logic. 

Wait.

Stiles wants to kiss him? What, for practice?

“I was distracted,” Derek admits. “And yeah, you’re right, I don’t have a lot of experience being intimate… especially not in the last year. Not really comfortable doing that.”

Stiles eyes him with an unreadable expression. His heartbeat is skyrocketing, even more so than their last encounter with the trolls. “So… you’re interested? Or you just said yeah because it’s what you say when you don’t know what to say.”

“Interested. In kissing you.”

Stiles makes a vague gesture with his hand. “I mean, yeah, if only to get you more comfortable with the whole dating thing in the future. I mean, we’re friends, and I want you to be happy.” He bites his lip, nervous. 

Derek doesn’t even need to think about it because he knows it’s a bad idea. He’ll kiss Stiles and get to know what it’s like, and his heart will break because he won’t ever get to have him, that this is out of friendship only. 

But this might be his only chance.

He’ll be happy for a moment.

But he’ll have this moment to think about forever.

“It’s okay if you don’t— I mean, it was just a dumb—” Stiles is already blushing with embarrassment, his scent souring with unhappiness and regret, and Derek can’t, he hates having Stiles unhappy here, he’s disappointed him, he’s being a terrible friend, Stiles was only trying to help—

“No, no, I appreciate it. Yeah. Practice, I’d like that,” Derek says. He fiddles with the hem of his sweatshirt. “So, um… now?”

Stiles swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing attractively. “Sure.” 

Derek steps forward until he’s at the doorway with Stiles, and cups Stiles’ chin with his hand, drawing him close enough for their lips to touch.

The first touch is soft, sweet, and Derek savors it, commits the taste of Stiles to memory.

He isn’t sure who moves first, whether is his hand that moves to take Stiles by the waist and draw him closer, or Stiles’s hands running down his back, or Stiles’ tongue slipping in his mouth, or Derek wanting to press closer, until their bodies are aligned—

Stiles pulls back; his face is red; the scent of arousal hangs heavily in the air.

“That was good practice,” he says. “I, ah, I gotta— gotta go.” 

“Thanks,” Derek says, because he has no idea what else to say.

Stiles opens the door and leaves without another word, and Derek is left in his empty apartment. Stiles’ laptop and books are still on his coffee table, and the entire lasagna that he’d baked because Stiles had been writing his paper and said he was craving it. 

He paces listlessly about his kitchen for an hour, cleaning up and replaying the last ten minutes in his head over and over again, wondering what just happened. 

Derek finally makes a decision; he boxes up the lasagna in tupperware and drives down to the new Stilinski-McCall house.

The Sheriff answers the door. “Derek, come on in, son,” he says warmly.

“I, ah, I made this. Here,” Derek says, thrusting the lasagna at him.

“Thank you,” John says, with a smile. “Melissa will be glad; she was debating whether or not we should go out to eat or not but I was hoping she wouldn’t look in our refrigerator since I don’t have anything. Stiles isn’t here, but I’ll make sure he takes most of it back to Berkeley with him.”

“Stiles isn’t here?” Derek repeats, like an idiot.

“Yeah, he went out with Scott and Lydia and folks before heading back. He wanted to go back to school early this weekend, get a good night’s rest before finals.” 

“Oh. Okay. I won’t bother you guys,” Derek says, and awkwardly runs out of there before there are any more questions.

He heads back to his empty apartment that smells like food and warmth and Stiles, except it has none of those things right now.

He somehow collapses into a dead sleep.

 

* * *

 

It isn’t until Wednesday when Derek is in the middle of vacuuming when a familiar scent wafts down the hallway, and suddenly the place feels like home.

He throws open the door to find Stiles just about to knock.

“Oh. Derek. Hi.” Stiles clutches his backpack, hovering awkwardly in the doorway. 

“You have a key,” Derek says. This is actually the first time in  _ months  _ Stiles has knocked; one time Derek woke up from a nap and Stiles was on his couch already, surrounded by mounds of books. 

“I just— uh. Hi. Yes.” 

Derek steps aside and gestures inside. 

Stiles walks in, through the hallway, to the couch, and then turns around and then looks back at Derek.

“How were finals?”

“Good. Good. I just finished. Turned in my last paper and now I— I’m back.”

Back. Here. In Derek’s home. It’s been awhile since the summer, when Stiles didn’t have homework or papers to write hanging over his head— it had just been he and Derek, then, Stiles goading Derek onto watching hordes of ridiculous shows and movies on Netflix and taking up too much space in Derek’s home.

In his heart.

Derek nods. It’s making him unsure, this nervous energy exuding from Stiles. He sits down on the couch, hoping Stiles does the same, and he does. They sit, staring at the blank TV, and then back at each other, and then hurriedly at the blank TV again.

“Do you want to watch something?” Derek says, just as Stiles blurts out, “The lasagna was good.”

“Thanks,” Derek says.

“I ah, I’m sorry I ran off last week. Before we ate. I know you only cooked it because I made you.”

Derek laughs. “You were whining about it for hours and I wanted to make it, okay, you didn’t make me. Plus you finished your paper.”

The tension disappears, and Stiles laughs, rambling about his paper and his professors and how glad he’s to be done with the semester. He puts on a new scifi show on Netflix and Derek brings out some popcorn and it’s a good, easy afternoon.

The episode ends and Stiles clicks pause. “The last time I was here… we, ah… kissed.”

“Yes. For practice, you said.”

“Was it good?”

“Very good,” Derek says honestly. 

“Do you want to try again?” Stiles licks his lips. 

Derek nods, wordless, and then Stiles is in his arms, his mouth hot and wet on his own. 

It’s different this time, less rushed, like Stiles is taking his time to ask a question with the kiss, coaxing soft noises out of Derek and pressing back with equal enthusiasm. Stiles’ hands are in his hair, running down his neck, his back, and Derek— Derek wants to touch everywhere, but he lets Stiles lead the way, knows he can only take what he is given, that this is  _ practice _ . 

Derek pulls back first this time. His heart is racing, too quickly, and he’s glad that Stiles can’t hear how fast it's going, or smell how aroused he is. 

The thick cloying scent of Stiles’ own arousal is intoxicating, and it hangs around them like a cloud. Derek wants to pursue it, but he knows it’s superficial— Stiles doesn’t mean anything by it. 

It’s just practice.

 

* * *

 

Stiles comes over again a few times during the break; they kiss, and each time Derek’s heart mends, and each time it breaks when Stiles leaves.

They don’t talk about it.

 

* * *

 

Stiles is upside down on the couch, his legs hanging over the back end, dangling as he talks. “And my dad is going crazy, craving  _ sufganiyot _ and we haven’t made it since I was a kid and he knows I don’t approve of anything deep-fried and since our oven is little more than a glorified pots and pans holder...”

“Bake them here,” Derek offers.

Stiles’ face breaks into a grin. “Dude, thank you so much.” 

It’s nice, Derek thinks, how much he likes having Stiles here, how well they move about the kitchen together as they mix the dough. Stiles is laughing, a smidge of flour on his nose as he asks Derek about his family traditions; and Derek actually talks about the paper chains he and Laura and Cora used to make for the Christmas tree, and Stiles talks about every Hannukah he had as a kid and how he and his dad still light the same menorah.

They watch a movie while the dough is rising, and Stiles falls asleep on Derek’s shoulder halfway through. Derek wipes the flour off his nose and rolls out the dough, as per the carefully smudged instructions in the notebook that Stiles had brought with him. 

He cuts out rounds and lets them rise again, settling back on the couch with the notebook. 

Derek flips past the recipe for the  _ sufganiyot _ ; there are more recipes in the same, tidy handwriting, and a few others, and one in a messy scrawl that must have been a younger Stiles. It’s a recipe for chocolate chip cookies. Derek laughs a bit.

Stiles stirs, curling into Derek’s chest. “Mhmn,” he mutters.

“Hey.” Derek resists the urge to card his fingers into Stiles’ hair and kiss him on the forehead.

“Done rising?”

“Second round, almost,” Derek says.

“Second—?!” Stiles sits up suddenly, dashing to the kitchen. “Good, good, you don’t want them to over-rise, oh cool, you already preheated the oven—”

Derek flips through Netflix as Stiles puts the trays in and shuts the oven door. 

Derek rewinds the movie to where Stiles fell asleep, and starts it over again. It’s comfortable on the couch; Stiles sprawls out and somehow his feet end up in Derek’s lap. 

The oven bell dings. “Stay,” Derek says. “Remember the cookie incident in November?” 

The donuts cool on a rack for another few minutes, and Stiles is rummaging through Derek’s kitchen. “Can’t believe you don’t have a pastry injector,” he teases.

“You sprung this on me last minute,” Derek says. “I can go buy one at the store.”

“Nah, it’s okay, we never had one either. We can use a spoon. Here, cut slits in the donuts.”

The careful process of filling each donut with jelly takes over an hour, and soon they have a tray filled with delicious pastries. Stiles beams. 

Stiles makes Derek keep a whole tray, and packs the other half to take home. “That was fun, thanks!” he says, when Derek walks him to the door. 

“Yeah,” Derek is saying, when Stiles darts forward and kiss Derek quickly on the mouth, short and sweet. 

“Mistletoe,” Stiles says, pointing at the hanging plastic sprig above them. “And, uh, for practice.”

 

* * *

 

The next day Derek can hear Stiles outside his apartment, pacing back and forth. He’s debating whether he should just open the door and let Stiles in, but he’s worried about why Stiles is here. 

It’s gone on long enough, hasn’t it? The practice kissing, all of it? 

What if Stiles is here to end it? If he’s figured out how Derek feels and is trying to let Derek down easy?

But what was that last kiss? That little peck before Stiles left— that couldn’t hardly have been practice.

Mistletoe. Right. They’re friends.

Finally there’s a sound of a knock— then a key turning.

Derek grabs the first magazine off his coffee table and tries to look casual. “Hi, Stiles,” he says.

“Derek,” Stiles says, marching right up to him and grabbing the magazine out of his hands, flinging it away. 

“I was reading that.”

“You can read it later. I want to say something.”

“Okay,” Derek says. 

Stiles’ eyes are bright, almost feverish. “I know we’re friends, and I offered to help you practice, but I can’t— I can’t make out with you anymore.”

Derek takes a deep breath. “That’s a good idea.” It’s better to hurt a little now than to hurt a lot later, right? “Since we’re friends. And we don’t actually—”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, staring at him. “I don’t have feelings for you.” His heart skips over the sentence and he waits, watching Derek, like he’s waiting for Derek to catch him in the lie. An easy way out, like he doesn’t want to admit it but wants Derek to know anyways. 

Derek stands up, looking Stiles in the eye.

Stiles is waiting, and suddenly it all makes sense; Stiles kissing him and running away, and Derek feels a pleased happy contentment rush through him;  _ Stiles likes him back.  _ He could kiss Stiles now and they would both know they both want this, that they want each other.

Stiles, is also, a huge asshole.

And Derek loves him. 

“I don’t have feelings for you,” Derek says back to him.

It takes a minute. “Ah!” Stiles points at him. “You’re lying, you always get that little twitch in between your eyebrows and I’m not a werewolf but I  _ know—” _

Derek grabs him by the shirt and kisses him fiercely, with all the passion he’s always wanted to, without holding back.

Stiles gasps and pushes Derek down onto the couch, climbing atop him and kissing him back with equal fervor. “Just to be sure—” he gasps, in between kisses— “ this is for real.” 

“Not for practice,” Derek says. He thinks his whole life may have been practice; and he gets to have a chance at something real, something happy. “Definitely real,” he says.

“Good,” Stiles says, and kisses him again.

  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and happy happy happy holidays! 
> 
> And if you're interested, [recipe for baked sufganiyot ](https://www.bigoven.com/recipe/baked-sufganiyot-jelly-doughnuts/227328) !


End file.
